Dragons deal gm-3

by Robert Asprin

  "Wow! Well, would you like to get a drink to celebrate?" he asked.

  Rebecca pushed her chips to Wallace. "Cash me out," she snapped.

  Her feeling of superior smugness lasted all the way back to Jordan Ma's suite, where he was expounding to the others about the game he had just played. He gestured Rebecca to a chair. She could hardly sit still, so eager was she to tell her story.

  "The sad looks on their faces," Jordan said. "That man Jerome did not want to offend the manufacturing millionaire from Ohio, but he did not like yet another accusation of a fraudulent game. We have all our stake back, and the house loses its percentage and, if I am not wrong, at least two of the high-betting players they entertain."

  "Cool," Peter said, blowing ring after ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "How about you, Rebecca? Break a few hearts tonight?"

  Rebecca smiled. She opened her purse and dumped the piles of cash onto the coffee table. "I did not leave them a single dollar."

  Winston Long looked at her blankly. She knew that meant disapproval. "You were supposed to lose."

  With a shock, she remembered. Her jaw dropped.

  "I am sorry," she said.

  Peter hit himself in the forehead with the flat of his hand. "You only had to remember one thing! You are so stupid!"

  Rebecca glared at him. "I do not answer to you!"

  "But you do answer to me," Winston said, putting a fingertip down on the tabletop. "Why did you not follow instructions?"

  Rebecca hated to answer in front of the others. Peter grinned at her. "I lost my temper. But I beat all of them! They did not leave happy!"

  Winston and Jordan exchanged glances.

  "You are young, child," Winston said. "Are you too young for this mission?"

  "No, elder one! I promise!"

  "You must calm down. It will serve you well in future. Do you need a mantra or a mnemonic to remember your instructions?"

  "No, sir." Rebecca was shamed. She felt her whole body grow hot. She pulled her consciousness in on itself so as not to give Peter the satisfaction of knowing how much she had disgraced herself.

  Jordan Ma lit a cigarette with a breath of flame. "It is not all bad that we have taken all the money. That will annoy the players as well. They will go where they have a chance of winning."

  "It is not a bad strategy--once in a while," Peter said.

  "I agree," Winston said. "Follow orders next time."

  Rebecca was stung, but she understood her error. Still, it had been delightful to see the stricken expressions on the other players' faces. Winning was much better than losing.

  "I shall obey, elder one."

  "Good. Come with me next time, child," Winston said. "I will show you how it is done."

  Thirty-one

  Griffen turned over a page, drawn in by the flowing prose. He admired the superb writing, feeling as if he had discovered a marvelous secret. He had heard of Montaigne's essays in college but had never read any of them. At two dollars, the little leatherette volume was a bargain. Griffen tucked it into his elbow along with a Louis L'Amour Western, and went on browsing.

  Used bookstores were one of the great treasures among many in the French Quarter, as they were in any other city. Except for Ann Arbor, he had never found such eclectic choices anywhere but New Orleans. The two-story bookstore was Griffen's favorite. It seemed to be the repository for books discarded by superbly literate people with incredibly eclectic tastes. There were always copies of some of Shakespeare's plays, alongside white-spined romance novels by the hundred, cookbooks galore, popular novels, science fiction, travel books, and local history. Hidden among them were antique atlases, medical textbooks, poetry, Restoration drama, and so many wonderful one-off oddities that Griffen could hardly resist visiting every few days to see what had come in. He loved the smell of old bookstores. The combination of dust, a little mold, paper, glue, leather, and the wood polish that the owner used on the glass-fronted cases that held the genuine rarities up near the cash register gave Griffen a feeling of contentment. He never left without making a purchase, even if it cost him only a quarter. The bookstore was one of the great bargains in entertainment in the city. The regulars at his local were big readers, too. He often ran into his drinking buddies in there.

  He had an hour or two before a poker game. Jerome had let a few selected high rollers visiting town know that Mr. McCandles himself might sit in. He had a full table booked out in four phone calls. Griffen promised himself that he would be moderate in winning, but he really needed some extra cash.

  A dragon walked into the bookstore. Griffen could tell without even looking around by the feeling of power. Thanks to his time hanging out with the krewe, he was learning how to distinguish his kinsmen from the other supernaturals in town. It was a terrific opportunity. Except for Mose, Jerome, Val, Mai, and himself, he had known few others with dragon blood. Now he knew dozens.

  Not that it helped him distinguish who was who. He felt tension in the air as lines of force were drawn. He was familiar with the sensation; wards had been used by wiccans and voudons at the conclave to prevent the hotel staff wandering into the middle of an activity that Griffen and the organizers would find hard to explain. So it was not serendipity that brought a fellow dragon in. Nor was this an inconsequential dragon. In fact, the feeling he got was that the new arrival was someone formidable.

  Griffen considered leaving through the rear door of the shop. The owner wouldn't have minded. He didn't question why one of his customers didn't want to meet someone coming in. He knew all about jealous girlfriends and overdue rent. Griffen braced himself. If there was going to be a confrontation, it was better to have it in there than out on the street. Fewer people would see it, but more important, fewer could get hurt if it turned into a fight. It could be Stoner. Griffen's consciousness hadn't been raised the last time he met the representative from Homeland Security; now that he could detect dragons from others, Stoner might feel differently to him. He braced himself. But this person was not alone. Griffen could feel five other strong presences, three in the street, and two more that had just entered the bookstore. Stoner would not bring such an entourage. It had to be ...

  "You've been avoiding me," a deep voice suddenly said at his back.

  Griffen whirled. And had to drop his eyes.

  Instead of the well-built former serviceman with the buzz-cut hair and cold eyes, he faced a short, zaftig woman in a two-piece suit dress, closely controlled, wavy, chestnut brown hair going gray at the temples, and cold eyes.

  "Melinda, I presume?" he said, with all the aplomb he could muster.

  "Griffen," she said, looking him up and down. "Well, well. You are just as handsome as Lizzy described you. Very boy-next-door."

  Griffen could have made a flip comment, but her eyes brooked no nonsense. He knew instinctively that whatever trouble that Lizzy and her siblings had caused him, they would never misbehave in front of their mother. "Formidable" was the perfect adjective to describe her. She could probably command a battalion with that glare.

  "To what do I owe the honor?"

  Melinda was terse. "Your sister is avoiding me. I have telephoned her several times to arrange a meeting. Every time she hears my voice, she hangs up on me. I have tried other methods to make a connection. She has declined each of those. Therefore, I have sought to speak with you. You, too, have declined to meet me."

  "I am busy," Griffen said, just as tersely. "I have a business to run, among other things."

  "Neither of you can avoid me forever. I have been here in New Orleans for more than two months, waiting for one of you to take the time out for a simple face-to-face conversation. Valerie clearly would prefer that I deal with you. So, I am dealing. I don't want to harm you. I want to establish friendly connections with your family. We are linked now. And it is important to form a bond of cooperation."

  "You might understand that we have no good reason to trust your family," Griffen said. Melinda's eyes flashed as if they were made of cry
stal. "Your son seduced my sister, and you whisked him out of town so he didn't have to answer for that. Your daughter--you know what she did."

  "And your sister took revenge on Lizzy. She is still recovering. I have spent months taking care of her. She is upset that Valerie would attack her like that."

  "It wasn't revenge. She was only protecting herself."

  "I told you and Valerie I wouldn't disagree with you on that. Lizzy is difficult to control. Nathaniel . . . has his interests. I deplore his approach, but I understand the urge. He behaved dishonorably, but your immediate reaction to him would have been out of proportion."

  "I don't think so," Griffen said. "My sister feels that she was raped. Anything I did to him in her defense would have been disproportionately small in comparison. To have used glamour on her to rob her of free will is no better than putting rohypnol in her drink."

  "That is a very strong accusation."

  "You've heard it before," Griffen said, offhandedly. "Your last try to arrange a meeting, as you call it, was another attempt to seduce her."

  "And she thrashed my messenger," Melinda said, with a dismissive wave. "Dale doesn't possess the talent for glamour. He would have gone no further than she wanted him to, but it doesn't matter. She sent him away. I thought it better to make my approach directly to you."

  "Fine. Tell me what you are here for."

  "I want contact. I am tired of waiting. You do not have any right to keep me from my grandchild. I want to see Valerie. I will see Valerie."

  "I will fight you to the death to protect my sister and her baby," Griffen said. "You know what they say about dragon fighting dragon. I don't give a damn about that. I will use everything in my power to keep you from bothering her."

  "Bothering her?" the deep voice rose. The few human customers looked up nervously. No one wanted to get in the middle of an argument between strangers. They had no idea what was really going on.

  "You're scaring the straights," Griffen said, with amusement he did not feel.

  Melinda visibly put herself under control. "You both are reading more into my intentions than is there. I just want to meet with her. I've been waiting very patiently, caring for my daughter. I don't have all the time in the world. Lizzy will be fully recovered soon."

  Griffen felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Scales broke out on the backs of his hands. Hastily, he forced both reactions to subside, but she had seen his alarm.

  "No, she won't be coming back," Melinda said, with a glint in her pale eyes. She could tell exactly what Griffen was thinking. "I will make certain of it. But my business here is not concluded. I have a right to speak with Valerie. That child will be of my blood as well as your line's. You don't know how important it is to protect it. And the potential it carries is immense. I don't want it to grow up deprived of both sides of its family. The support of one's clan is vital. Dragon families are more vital than any human's. Malcolm McCandles has a lot to answer for, raising you as if you were pedigreed dogs, with a kennel master instead of foster parents. He knew there were other families in the dragon community who would have given you a home after you lost your parents, who would have taught you what you needed to know."

  "That's none of your business," Griffen said.

  "Both of you like to use that phrase," Melinda said. "But it is my business. Like anyone who wants to assure the future for our species, I am interested in Valerie's well-being and that of her child. I want to give the next generation my full support."

  "There shouldn't even be another generation on the way yet," Griffen said, bitterly. "My sister hasn't even finished college. Thanks to your son. And both might have ended if any of your daughter's attacks had been successful."

  Melinda looked pained. "Please. As you say, my children are not good at handling personal relationships or settling down. You can understand that I am seizing the opportunity as I can. This may be my only grandchild."

  Griffen felt the poignancy in her words. He almost gave in at that moment, but she was still Melinda. He knew Mai distrusted her, and Mose had been wary of her.

  "Maybe we can work something out," Griffen said. "Under normal circumstances I would agree, that both sides should support a baby on the way, but these aren't normal."

  "The circumstances are as normal as they get for dragons," Melinda said. "You have no idea."

  "I don't want to know. My sister is the only one I care about. But let's declare a truce. I will talk to her. You stop phoning her and having her followed. If she says no, then you leave her alone until and if she wants to make contact with you. Her word is final."

  "Nothing is final when you live as long as we do," Melinda said.

  Griffen looked grimly pleased.

  "The same goes for you," he snarled. He held out his hand and willed the power of the scepter into it. A flame rose from his palm. He clenched his fist, and the fire snuffed out. It hurt, but it was an effective show. Melinda smiled.

  "Ah, you are coming into your gifts. Very well, I will abide by a truce. Please assure Valerie I really do only have her best interests in mind."

  "I'll tell her. The decision is hers, though."

  "Good enough for now," Melinda said. She nodded sharply. The two dragons pretending to shop for books fanned out to flank her. She glanced at Griffen, then headed for the door.

  The bell jingled before she reached it. She stopped as the door opened inward. Etienne strode in. He scanned the store. His face lit up as he spotted Griffen.

  "Mr. Griffen! Glad to find you here. I gotta ask you somet'ing."

  That means money, Griffen thought. "What can I do for you?"

  Etienne pointed to the nearest bay of shelves. "Well, let's just take a moment alone over dere where we gots some privacy."

  Melinda snorted at him. Etienne noticed her. He removed himself from her path and sketched a deep bow.

  "My lady."

  Melinda raised her chin and strode out past him. Griffen eyed him curiously. Etienne met him with a bland smile. He took Griffen's arm.

  "How do you feel about addin' some extra advertisin' in the newspaper Sunday supplement for the krewe?" he asked. "Half the proceeds go to our charity. Some of the others are kickin' in for a half-page ad. It'd be about a thousand. Mean a lot to have your support."

  "Another thousand? This is running into serious money," Griffen said, feeling as if he was being fleeced by an expert.

  "You have it, or so I hear," Etienne said. He gave Griffen a knowing glance. Griffen wondered how much of his intel was gossip and how much was clairvoyance.

  "Less than I had before," Griffen said. He had a mental picture of bags of cash with wings fluttering out of the window like in an old cartoon. He wanted to say no, but it was hard to appear stingy when everyone else was being generous. Jerome had told him of a voodoo deity that appeared in disguise to ask for charity. It was bad karma to refuse. As tightly as he was stretched, giving to those less fortunate was important. "All right." Etienne slapped him on the back.

  "It's all for a good cause. Hey, don't forget. Your final costume fittin' is day after tomorrow. Don't be late, okay? The tailor's fingers are about to fall off, all the people she's gotta fit, even though I told her you're somet'ing special."

  "I know, I'm king," Griffen grumbled.

  Etienne smiled. "Good, ain't it? See you at the first ball."

  Thirty-two

  Val held her arms up over her head and stared at the pale green ceiling. She stood in her underwear in the living room of a shotgun house in St. Bernard's Parish, hoping that the thin lace curtain on the window was opaque enough so passersby couldn't see her.

  "Hold still, honey baby. I got another pin. I don't want to stick you," Aunt Herbera said. Val felt the plump woman's strong, capable hands gather up another fold of beige muslin and press it against her. "Oh, this is gonna be so pretty!"

  "It doesn't look like much," Mai commented. Val lowered her eyes and delivered an annoyed look to her friend, who was curled up in a lar
ge, flowered, upholstered armchair under the front window of the small shotgun house. Mai shrugged. "Well, it doesn't. The fabric is dull. You could be wearing a curtain."

  Gris-gris's aunt turned with her hands on her ample hips and regarded her with exasperated pity.

  "I am drapin', and this is to make the pattern, Miss Mouth. If you never had nothin' fitted to that skinny ass of yours, you had this done on you. Saves fine fabrics from gettin' stretched and ruined. We do all our experimentin' with this." She returned to Val. "What was you thinkin' for neckline, honey? We got to think about expansion of that pretty bosom of yours, what with your little passenger on board, there."

  "I've got invitations to parties starting in a week," Val said. She suddenly worried about the time. "Will you be able to finish it by then?"

  Aunt Herbera waved a hand. "You can have it two days from now if you want it."

  Val felt shy asking about price, but she had become very aware in the last few months that not getting details up front usually meant she would be socked with expenses she didn't expect. "Will that . . . cost extra?"

  "Why, no, girl. That's just when I'll be done. You think I'm gonna hold it up for a while to be dramatic? I've got other things I got to finish, but Gris-gris wanted to make certain I took care of you. Okay, then, maybe a little give, 'cause the season'll run until March 10."

  Val was relieved. While there were gowns for every shape, size, and age of women in countless shops in New Orleans, she had not found a single decent evening dress for a six-foot-plus pregnant woman that she could afford. She had called Gris-gris to ask for the name of his relative who made clothes. Aunt Herbera was happy to oblige. And she wouldn't cost an arm and a leg, either.

  "How many relatives does Gris-gris have?" Val asked. "Just out of curiosity. He seems to have uncles and aunts and cousins for every occasion."

  "There's plenty of us," Aunt Herbera said, as she worked. "And there's some who ain't relatives but they is now. You know what that's like."